Interlude
by Little Patch of Heaven
Summary: Clint Barton fell in love in Budapest.


_First Avengers fanfiction. I doubt it will be the last. I have several in the works but I've made a decision to stop posting chaptered stories until they're finished becasue I have such a bad habit of hitting snags and abandoning them._

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**interlude:**

Budapest.

If asked, Clint would describe it with one word:

_lovely._

Climate temperate, warm and pleasant, not a rain cloud in the sky and idyllic sites around every corner, waiting on every street. It's no wonder it's been voted one of the nicest places to live in Europe and Clint could almost convince himself he's on a nice vacation - if his suitcase wasn't packed full with pistols and arrows and even some cyanide tablets tucked into the corner. Just in case, you never know.

Warm, pleasant, pretty - it makes Clint think of museums and classical art and something straight out of a romance movie; he can almost hear the musical score playing in the background with soft violins and a slow rhythm, but that's probably his overactive imagination.

He thinks of music and dancing; he thinks of old history classes and wine; he thinks of tourist pamphlets and postcards.

He doesn't think about how stunning Natasha looks in that dress; he doesn't think about the flicker of fire on his skin as she touches his arm; he doesn't think about how much he might care for her desire her be falling in love with no wait stop

Rule one, underline, bold, highlight, circle in red:

you don't get involved with a partner, no you don't even think of it, not when you're both assassins and your next target could be each other, your next kill the very person you're covering right now. (See, problem number one; Clint looks and her and his mind leaps to the easiest five ways to kill her with the items closest at hand - and really that's not the basis for a stable, happy relationship.)

Clint's fucked up enough with partners in the past, screwed over his personal life - ha, funny, what's that? - so much that the very thought of anything more with Natasha, anything serious or at all worth while, sends his mind to a screeching halt, warning signs flashing DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT DUMBASS in his head.

So Budapest. Warm, pleasant, pretty.

Busy, overcrowded, stifling. It's too loud, too populated; there are too many things for Clint to watch and he's darting his eyes around the room on overdrive, eyes catching shifts and tics and tucking away details in the back of his mind. To be stored for later. If he needs them. (_that man is hiding something there's a slight pale ring on his finger so probably a spouse _his mind runs _and oh look over there that woman has a nervous tic going maybe she should be watched closer and oh in the corner there _-)

Clint's wearing an Armani suit because this mission involves stealth and secrecy, sneaking into parties with fake IDs and new names - Jacob Rossland, he has to remind himself every once in a while, just so it sticks - and fabricated personalities, watching the guests carefully while you fake a smile and pretend that the room is not too loud and too full for you to concentrate properly.

His suit is itchy and tight and it pulls in all the wrong places, restricts movement; the tie around his neck is driving him crazy, feels like a collar. Clint fiddles with his shirt cuffs and twitches and just generally looks out of place and uncomfortable and really they should just remove him from this part of the mission before he draws attention because there are too many lights and too many people and Clint just wants to shoot things because that's what he does best.

Coulson's voice flickers over the comm, tells him to calm down before he gives them away and Clint breathes in a deep breath.

Right. Composure. Calm the fuck down Clint, seriously.

He rattles off facts in his head, levels out his breathing as he does so: the party is for patrons of the arts, rich bastards who pay generous donations to the Hungarian National Gallery, why the hell they would do that Clint hasn't a clue they do, and in attendance is one Lukas Drasche - Austrian, blond, aged 43 - who has possible - no, he does, Coulson's confirmed it - ties to HYDRA which is something that SHIELD monitors closely and the CIA may possibly be there, Clint's been told to keep an eye out, because Drasche also has his hand in some other illegal dealings and SHIELD is determined to get to him first because the CIA always royally fucks these things up. Plus, HYDRA. SHIELD has special interest in HYDRA.

One last tug on his cuffs, one last fidget.

"Feeling a little exposed down here on the ground?"

Natasha's voice buzzes in his ear; she sounds confident, the smirk on her lips tinting her tone - she almost amused by him; she probably is. Clint catches sight of her across the room, leaned up against a bar counter with a champagne glass in her hand, staring right back at him.

"You know me, better with heights," he answers, hides the movement of his mouth behind a wine glass that he snatches from a passing waiter's tray.

"Straighten your tie, your feathers look ruffled," is all she says, before she's putting down the champagne to smile at some man beside her.

One mission.

It takes five days, three hours, twenty one minutes, thirty two kills, and eight break-ins. One seduction courtesy Natasha. Three minor panic attacks until Clint gets his hand back on a bow and is finally authorized to shoot something, thank **god.**

So this is what Budapest is, when others ask later and Clint and Natasha stay tight lipped:

it's Natasha looking fantastic in her dress and charming the secrets out of a weapons dealer worth millions; it's Clint following her closely, a constant shadow, saving her life more than once, more than twice, so many times they lose count and her saving his in return; it's Clint sitting in a shower trying to wash blood off his hands when someone too young and too-not-their-target-not-at-all gets caught in the crossfire and it's Natasha sitting beside his in an open-backed dress, make-up raining down her face, staying silent because he doesn't need talking just needs her presence; it's the two of them reassuring each other through their comms, spending hours in the hotel room talking and learning way too much for them to play it safe because you're not supposed to care for other agents like this and -

and it's them coming home from it and trying to forget, except for that part where they can't. It's them knowing each other like a second skin, knowing each other's movements and tendencies and weaknesses and making up for them, working together like clockwork, or better even because every time Clint tries to work with clocks he ends up breaking them somehow, he doesn't know, and they - Clint and Natasha, that is - work perfectly 100% of the time.

It's them shooting each other little glances they didn't used to, and maybe saying _NatashaClint _instead of _HawkeyeWidowBartonRomanoff_, and coming back completely different than when they left, little new secrets buried in their chests.

(And Budapest is where Clint Barton fell in love. That's the most important part.)


End file.
